“You would hold the book in the left hand,” said the soldier, with almost as much excitement as though he were the author, “and pack with the right.  That’s the way.”

“Yes, that’s the way.  It would be only a little book—­like a vest-pocket diary—­but it would be priceless.  It would be divided into sections covering the different kinds of visit to be paid—­week-end, week, fortnight, and so on.  Then the kind of place—­seaside, river, shooting, hunting, and so on.  Foreign travel might come in as well.”

“Yes,” said the soldier, “lists of things for Egypt, India, Nairobi.”

“That’s it,” said the flaneur. “And there would be some unexpected things too.  I guess you could help me there with all your wide experience.”

“A corkscrew, of course,” said the soldier.

“I said unexpected things,” said the flaneur reprovingly, “such as—­well, such as a screw-driver for eye-glasses—­most useful.  And a carriage key.  And—­”

His pause was my opportunity.  “I’ll tell you another thing,” I said, “something for which I’d have given a sovereign in that gale last week when I was at the seaside—­window-wedges.  Never again shall I travel without window-wedges.”

“By Jove!” said the soldier, “that’s an idea.  Put down window-wedges at once.  It’s a great book this,” he went on.  “And needed—­I should jolly well say so.  You ought to compile it at once—­before any of us has time to go away again.  Personally I don’t know how I’ve lived without it.  Why, just talking about it makes me feel quite a literary character.”

“Let me see,” I said sweetly, “what do you call this monumental work?  Oh yes, I remember—­Are There Any Important Omissions from my Saturday-to-Monday Equipment?”

“Rubbish!” said the soldier.  “The title is—­Have I Put Everything in?”

* * * * *

BY THE CANAL IN FLANDERS.

  By the canal in Flanders I watched a barge’s prow
  Creep slowly past the poplar-trees; and there I made a vow
  That when these wars are over and I am home at last
  However much I travel I shall not travel fast.

  Horses and cars and yachts and planes:  I’ve no more use for such;
  For in three years of war’s alarms I’ve hurried far too much;
  And now I dream of something sure, silent and slow and large;
  So when the War is over—­why, I mean to buy a barge.

  A gilded barge I’ll surely have, the same as Egypt’s Queen,
  And it will be the finest barge that ever you have seen;
  With polished mast of stout pitch pine, tipped with a ball of gold,
  And two green trees in two white tubs placed just abaft the hold.

  So when past Pangbourne’s verdant meads, by Clieveden’s mossy stems,
  You see a barge all white-and-gold come gliding down the Thames,
  With tow-rope spun from coloured silks and snow-white horses three,
  Which stop beside your river house—­you’ll know the bargee’s me.